


A Candle in the Stew

by booktick



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dutch is Dutch, Face-Fucking, Implied John Marston/Dutch van der Linde, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, praising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-14 01:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17498960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booktick/pseuds/booktick
Summary: Dutch requests Arthur's assistance out by Valentine.





	A Candle in the Stew

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of this franchise.

* * *

Arthur Morgan may have been played many parts in his life but his least favorite was playing the fool. He felt like a right one after the mess up in Blackwater. They had all been dragged through the mountains, a good chunk dyin' out right and Marston going off to nearly die on some mountain. It had him on edge the entire way to the hilltop.

And when Dutch slapped a hand down on his shoulder, ' _How about a night on the town, Mister Morgan?_ ', he felt nothing but a frenzy crawl inside him.

Yet, when Dutch van der Linde calls, Arthur Morgan comes a runnin'. He was always loyal to Dutch. If Dutch wanted him in Valentine, then to Valentine he'd ride. The trip there is over far too soon. He ties his horse to a post and wandered on by the saloon. He doesn't see Dutch through the window, no matter how his head strains. If he recalled, last time he was in there, he might've lost a friend and ran from the law.

Last thing he wanted was to cause a ruckus when he was supposed to be here for Dutch. 

"Morgan." A voice came from the shadows.

Arthur looked towards the alleyway, and there he was. Dutch van der Linde, with a hat tilted upon his head and guns holstered, possessing a grin so wicked he figured the Devil had made it. But he nods at the man as he approached, moving through the slick on the ground, boots smeared with wet mud.

"You wanted me, Dutch?"

"I did, I did." Dutch lifted his head, "Thought you could use a bit of fun, Arthur."

"Fun, Dutch," he looked towards the saloon "Our sort of fun usually gets us in a cell."

"Nonsense, Arthur." A hand grabs his shoulder, rings littered Dutch's fingers "C'mon. Follow me." His hand slid off, down Arthur's back before heading back down the alleyway he came.

No matter how or when, Dutch's touch is always just another mark on him. He could wash and wash, it'd never be enough to get it off. He even went out of his way to get those touches in the earlier days, ran around, ' _Yes, sir, Dutch._ ', ' _Of course,_ _Dutch',_ and ' _I'll always be at your side_ , _Dutch._ '. Young Buck Arthur Morgan and his words running out of his mouth so fast he didn't have the time to stop and think until it was too late, his words with so much laughter in them. Now they were all replaced with a bite that he could never really stop. It was different now, he was older, Dutch was older, and it wasn't just the trio in the gang.

He doesn’t venture off too often with Dutch anymore. Not since Blackwater, those days weren’t exactly long behind them but they weren’t exactly close neither. Him and Dutch used to go fishing all the time, even without Hosea. The two of them, off on an adventure, returning to camp who knows when. But things aren’t like that anymore, they all have to stick together to keep moving forward. Only one on one for special jobs, jobs that brought in coin for the camp and jobs that meant keeping food in their bellies. If they ever wanted to leave the Pinkertons in the smoke, they’d have to be careful of everything.

Yet, here he was, heading into some alleyway in Valentine, alone with Dutch at night. This was just screaming for trouble. It didn’t stop Arthur from being two steps behind Dutch though, never did really, no matter the situation. If Dutch was the devil on his shoulder, then Hosea was the angel and that was that.

And followed the Devil he did.

“Dutch, y’sure we should be out here—”

But it was like Dutch didn’t hear a damn word he said. He stood there, not too far from Dutch, trying to get an eye on him despite the lack of moonlight in the alleyway. From what he could tell, Dutch took one look around before starting to undress. The older man had his fingers unbuttoning his vest and soon his shirt, and that’s all it took for Arthur’s trousers to be a little too tight in this cloudy night.

“You gonna keep eyeballin’ me, _son_ ,” Dutch asked, eyes settling on Arthur, “Or you gonna remove your current bodily restrictions?”

The name though, that _damn_ name, it sent a sensation throughout his entire being. His fingers curled and uncurled, rubbing at the stains on his pants. He swallowed something fierce, felt the familiar burn in his throat. He could look away from Dutch, in fact, he figured he _should_. Dutch was his mentor, his leader and his friend. He always figured Dutch would lose interest in him, him not being the prized pony anymore and all that. Hell, Dutch even eyed Mary-Beth any chance that announced itself. He should look away, and head back to camp, tell Dutch to go find John if he wanted to play father figure tonight. That’d be the reasonable thing to do, he told himself, the thing he would do, yet the rock that settled in his pants said otherwise.

"Y'sure it's safe, Dutch?" Arthur forced his words out, stiff and low, "Out in the open like this? What if one of those drunken fellers c'mon out?" He didn't even realize he had ducked his chin to his chest, hat shielding his face despite the sky already doing enough to hide him away from the world.

"Why, _Mister Morgan_ , I did not take you as a shy man." Dutch clicked his tongue.

"Not shy, it's just dangerous is all I'm sayin," Arthur kept his voice hushed, "wanderin' off like this while half the town's awake in the saloon." There was another roar of laughter from the saloon. Someone shouted for another round of drinks.

Arthur dug his boots into the ground, huffing some as he continued reprimending Dutch, "Don't you think Miss Molly O'Shea's worried 'bout where you ran off too?" His tone, his chastising, it was not welcomed by Dutch van der Linde.

_None at all._

"You let _me_ worry about Molly," Dutch pointed a finger at him, "And you worry about yourself, Arthur. There are plenty of things in this world that are twice as dangerous than foolin' around on what was supposed to be a fun night between friends. Between allies."

"It's damn risky to have _any_ sort of fun here, Dutch, 'specially if some fool sticks his nose in too close." That much was true, "I don't want anyone gettin' to you, Dutch."

"And they won't," Dutch was so damn sure of himself, "Don't you have any faith in me?"

He huffed at Dutch's words, " _Faith_." After all these years, still asking if he had...it was wrong. It felt wrong. His loyalty being questioned that is. He shook his head, still had it turned down and shielded.

Dutch grunted, and with a few heavy steps grabbed him by the chin, forcing his head back up "Now either you remove your clothing," those eyes stuck with Arthur's like they had done for all these years, "Or I'll cut 'em from you." It wasn't a threat but it sure as hell felt like one.

Arthur's eyelids drooped, "Sure, Dutch. Whatever you say." There was a pat to his cheek, fingers sliding off slowly, not letting go until the last second. That mark just kept on spreading all over Arthur.

Dutch had moved away, pressed his back up against another building's wall, between two crates. A pair of guns placed on the crate to the left, always close in case of trouble or worst. He did as Dutch said though, took off his belt and placed it right beside Dutch's guns. His hat neatly placed upon his belt soon after that. He didn't need Dutch goin' and knockin' it into the mud too.

However, it's not as easy as some might think to get his own trousers down, fumbling around in the middle of the night as a drunken crowd formed in the saloon right beside them. He could think of worst places though, like the middle of Blackwater or in Micah's tent. He shuddered all over inside at the thought of either, more so for the latter if he were being honest. Arthur Morgan didn't feel like an honest man. In the end, he doesn't get his pants as low as Dutch's but it's enough to lessen the pressure inside them.

"C'mon now, Arthur," Dutch waved a hand in the air, "While the night is young and the dawn sleeps."

He would have rolled his eyes if he didn't expect a slap on the cheek. He'd need to clean his clothes later after all this. Dutch had his pants pulled down past his hips, gun holster hanging. The man must have been cold being bare ass in Valentine. He would have laughed if his throat wasn't about to be full of Dutch's cock. And then Arthur knelt before the man he called mentor, unbuttoned his own vest and the breeze swept through. It had the hair sticking up on his arms, goosebumps scattered all along him. Dutch didn't seem too bothered by it, had fingers immediately go to Arthur's hair and begin to stroke. It's not hard for Arthur to find Dutch's cock, pulled out and already half hard despite the cold night ahead. His hands must be worst than the cold, rough and not as nimble as John Marston's but they get the job done he supposed. He started with his hand going around Dutch, similar stroking like Dutch was doing with his hair.

"Don't play coy now," Dutch cooed, "We both know it doesn't suit you, Arthur."

He figured there was a joke somewhere in there, one he couldn't find. His head bowed, tongue licked his lips and then the slit of Dutch's cock/ The taste of salt slides over his tongue as he continues to taste the man, the sort that doesn't go way as fast one might like, no matter how many times they clean their teeth. He's tasted Dutch plenty of times to know that. His hand was still wrapped around Dutch as he let his lips cover the top. He hadn't planned on taking Dutch all in one go if this was how things were gonna be.

He would be hoarse in the morning if Dutch had his way. And knowing Dutch, it usually went that direction one way or another. Arthur took more of Dutch into his mouth, his tongue wet and hot against him. He even let his teeth slip once or twice just to see what Dutch would do. Despite all of his frustration and worry with each breath he took, it was what it was and if he was gonna be on his knees for Dutch, he might as well take the reins as long as he could.

Didn't last long though, never did.

Dutch's fingers run through his hair, rings scraped at his scalp. He blinked away the dirt that kicked up with every gust of the wind. It stung but was nothing compared to how Dutch was treating him.  His tongue ran over the shaft but didn't take all of Dutch. It wasn't like he ran around camp on his knees. His mouth usually opened to give smart remarks, not for face fuckin. With Dutch though, it could always be a bit of both he supposed. He had been moving his head back and forth in slow, careful movements. But, like most things with Dutch, it was never enough. The fingers that had been petting at his head were now sliding into his hair and twisting the locks around them something fierce.

The hand in his hair doesn't let up. Dutch had a fistful of it, tugging whenever Arthur didn't move fast enough for him. When he did, Dutch rewarded him with hushed comments. Arthur let his eyes drift up Dutch's trail of body hair until it got to that jawline. The alleyway made it hard to get enough light from the moon to see much of anything, no less seein' Dutch van der Linde. The sound of the Saloon flooded his ears, only hearing Dutch in between jeers and whoops. The alleyway was a small hidden space from all of that, more so at night. No wonder Dutch had them come here. Just like the man to like a lil' danger. To know people were hollerin' next door, while oilin' the gun. It must have made Dutch's ego swell twice the size as his cock.

He tried to capture the man's face in his mind's imagination. All Arthur could think of was the way Dutch's lips curled when he was smug. The moon was starting to move in the graying sky, clouds being pushed through. It was enough to give him a better look of the man he had sworn his life away to. His head pulled back for a moment before he felt Dutch's fingers twist his hair. His open mouth was spread wider as he took more of Dutch. His jaw was beginning to ache from the sudden stretch, hadn't had Dutch in his mouth for a few weeks. It's hard to get cozy when snow's at the knees and trying not to die. Now it felt like the were all trying not to die of the heat. He should have welcomed the night's breeze. But he didn't.

"That's it," Dutch murmured, "That's it, Arthur...always a good boy, Arthur." He could barely see the way Dutch's eyelids had drooped shut until the moonlight trailed over their bodies.

His own lowered as soon as Dutch's. It wasn't like he was going to get it all set up pretty on stage for him. He could always make an excuse, some made up job, to get Dutch by himself. When the time was right, he'd find the window. It'd take time was all. He doesn't have much time to reminisce. Dutch's fingers had slid to cover his ears, buried deep into his flesh, as he grabbed a hold of Arthur. The thrusts aren't as slow and measured, Dutch's moves are hard and fast--desperate. The heat was pooled in Arthur's gut, begging for something, anything. He had to reach down with the hand that had been around Dutch to cup himself, fingers stroked and stroked but it wasn't enough.

He needed...he didn't know what he needed...Dutch was the one who had all the things to say, didn't he? Knew exactly what was needed when it was needed.

"You make me proud, _boy_ ," Dutch ran his tongue over his lips, wetting only what Arthur could figure was dry mouth, "So proud of my boy."

It shouldn't feel so good to hear that. Arthur wondered if that was how John felt when Dutch praised him. It must have had Marston a bundle of nerves too. To get all the things said that was wanted, that's needed, by the very person it's wanted and needed from.

Dutch continued on with his praises, "A fine man you are." The eyebrows on Dutch go narrow, fitting deep between those eyes.

His own tongue continued to soak Dutch van der Linde for all that he had. Arthur moaned around the man's cock, as if it were the finest meal he had taken in ages. His eyes began to shut as his hand trembled, still cupped around himself.

"So loyal," Dutch grunted, "A _good_ man, Arthur Morgan." Nails dragged down Arthur's cheeks, no doubt leaving another mark.

The burn in Arthur's throat grew with each thrust from Dutch. He could feel the man fill his throat, it took everything in Arthur to not gag on Dutch's cock. He didn't need to choke while giving the man what he wanted. He takes the burn and some more, lips tight around Dutch. The tingles started to twist inside him, deeper and deeper they went. He tried to hold it in. But his own moan was louder as Dutch came.

Arthur prayed no one stepped foot out of the saloon, and if they did, prayed they'd be too drunk to figure out what was going on in the alleyway. He did not need Dutch leaving another body in the mud. None of the camp needed any signs of trouble until the heat died down. He figured what he and Dutch were doing probably didn't help none. As the heat spread down his thighs and in his trousers, he figured that _one_ little runaway at night couldn't change all that much.


End file.
